


man delights not me!

by hamdeny (brooklynisosm)



Series: man delights not me! verse lol [1]
Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pining, stupid love triangle/square if u count laertes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 07:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15043382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklynisosm/pseuds/hamdeny
Summary: Inspired by a tumblr post lolSleeping with Hamlet was great until Horatio realized he had... uh, feelings. Hamlet also realized he had feelings. Just, those feelings were for Ophelia.





	man delights not me!

**Author's Note:**

> so uh first of all i... never write anything from the perspective of any hamlet character except hamlet. so this was a big step bc i have no idea what horatio is thinking. but like, i did it anyway! 
> 
> this is inspired by that post that's like "i had a dream that hamlet and horatio are friends with benefits except hamlet keeps talking about his crush on ophelia and horatio cries himself to sleep" cause that's a good fuckin post and i took it too far
> 
> lastly, i have written a lot of stuff about hamlet that i wanna post so uh watch out

It was not something they talked about, what they did behind closed doors. It was almost as if every time was just a dream, for when Hamlet was not beneath Horatio he didn’t acknowledge that he ever had been. A dream, there and sweet and lovely, then gone. 

Hamlet was his best friend. Had been since they were children. They talked and laughed, shared secrets and sweets, cried and comforted. Horatio had never been so close to anyone, and knew he most likely never would be again. He knew Hamlet (both metaphorically and literally) inside out. So when this thing between them had started, it was with mutual understanding that nothing would change. They were both bored, and lonely, and safe. At least that’s what Horatio told himself. 

At one time Horatio had been able separate Hamlet from the boy who kissed bruises into his skin and stared up at him with pupils swallowing his eyes. Horatio could forget how Hamlet said his name in the throes of ecstasy when they were studying or getting coffee or talking late into the night about literature. When Hamlet was clothed he didn’t think about the freckles on the prince’s shoulders or the pale softness of his thighs. For a while, Horatio could pretend he was sleeping with a stranger with the same name and face as his Prince. That was easier. 

But he couldn’t anymore. 

It was winter break, the day after they’d arrived back home from their first semester at Wittenberg. Horatio had worried this thing would stop once they were back in the familiar halls of Elsinore, but when he received a singular eggplant emoji text a few hours ago, that fear was quenched. Now Hamlet was curled into his side, sheets tangled around both their bodies. Horatio, without thinking, stroked his hand through Hamlet’s hair. It was soft and thick, a bit wavy. Hamlet leaned into the touch like a cat, a small, happy noise springing from the back of his throat. 

“Do you like that?” Horatio asked. He felt himself smile, glancing down at Hamlet’s dark head of hair. 

“Yeah,” said Hamlet sleepily. “Don’t stop.” 

And it was so cute. That was it. Hamlet was  _ adorable,  _ no matter what he’d like people to believe. It hit Horatio like a sneak wave at the beach, pulling his feet out from under him, the warmth in his heart as he brushed through soft hair with his fingers. As he stared, transfixed, at this boy who he’d always known he loved. God. He loved Hamlet.  _ He loved Hamlet _ . 

“What time is it?” Hamlet mumbled, still leaning into Horatio’s hand. 

“Don’t know.” Horatio’s phone was somewhere abandoned on the ground with his clothes, and Hamlet’s probably the same. “Why?” 

“Ophelia. She’s coming over since I haven’t seen her for a while.” Hamlet snorted. “And I’d prefer she didn’t walk in on this.”

“Yes, that might not be a good idea,” Horatio said, more to himself. “She’d be heartbroken.” 

“She would?” 

Horatio laughed. “I don’t think seeing the ‘love of her life’ in bed with another would raise her spirits.” 

Hamlet’s body shifted, stiffening. Horatio felt the movement against his skin and then all of a sudden Hamlet wasn’t wrapped up in his arms anymore; he’d rolled away a bit. Horatio’s side of the bed at once felt cold and empty. “She has a thing for you?” he said. Horatio couldn’t quite see his face but his tone had gone weird and strained. 

“You’re kidding, right?” He nudged Hamlet’s leg under the covers with his knee, trying to diffuse the strange tension that had appeared. But Hamlet didn’t laugh, didn’t look up at him with the impish grin he did when he thought he’d been hilarious. No, he just laid there, not touching Horatio, pale and distant. “Ophelia’s in love with you. She has been for years.” 

“Oh.” 

A bitterness tasted on Horatio’s tongue. “She’s not very subtle about it. I thought you knew.” 

Hamlet stared up at the ceiling, seemingly deep in thought. He said finally, “It’s not like I never wondered, or guessed, or…” He trailed off, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Well, I guess a part of me knew. I just. Nobody’s ever said it out loud.” He went silent again for a long moment. “Are you sure?” 

“What?” 

“Are you sure she has feelings for me?” 

“Yes, I’m sure.” Horatio chuckled uncomfortably. “She’s told me about it. A lot.” 

“What did she say?” 

Irritation sparked in Horatio’s chest. “I don’t know. A lot of things.” 

“But like, what?” 

“Uh. Well, that you’re attractive. You’ve got pretty eyes and really good hair and good bone structure.” Horatio felt suddenly mortified, and broke eye contact, instead looking around the room. “And you’re really nice and smart and funny even though you don’t think so, and easy to talk to and it’s hot when you act in plays or play piano or like, write stuff, and I- uh, she just… really likes you, I guess.” 

A flush had crept onto Hamlet’s cheeks, especially striking with his bare, pale chest in view. “That’s. Uh. Wow. A lot.” 

“In what way?” 

Hamlet’s mouth opened, and closed again. His lips were still flushed from Horatio kissing him. 

A bit of Horatio’s heart cracked. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want.” 

Hamlet did not read the sign that Horatio Did Not Want To Talk About This. Of course, because he never did. “It would be weird for me to have feelings for her, because I’ve known her since we were literally babies. And the whole Laertes thing- well, that’s just a mess by itself. And that would probably ruin the friendship- I mean, it would make things awkward with… well, with everything, I guess. I don’t know.” He sat up in a movement that startled Horatio and frantically began to dress, like someone would walk in and find him unclothed at any moment. “Is this your sock?” Horatio nodded. “I’m not in love with her back. I just think… she’s so. But I like her. A lot. Like, dating “liking a lot”. And that’s really scary and kind of makes me wanna throw up because I’ve never actually dated anybody.” He buttoned his shirt, concealing the little hickeys Horatio left around his collarbones. “Like I’ve never taken anyone on a date or, like, taken stupid selfies with them or… or had dinner with my parents or gone to a stupid dance and slow danced. But with Ophelia, I could do that. She’d probably force me to do that.” Hamlet laughed helplessly, covering his eyes with his hands and wiping at them. “And I kind of like it.” 

“Oh.” 

They sat in silence for a moment. Horatio wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. 

Hamlet glanced at his phone screen and cursed. “And she’s gonna be here soon so you need to get dressed.” 

“What? She wouldn’t think it’s normal I’m naked in your bed?” Horatio joked, though his smile faded fast when Hamlet didn’t laugh. “Okay. Give me my sock back.” 

“I can’t find mine.” 

“This is your house.” 

Hamlet didn’t take the sock off. Horatio sighed and put on his boxers.

 

* * *

 

Hamlet stood in front of his mirror, squinting at himself. “God, I need a shower but I don’t have time.” He ran a hand through his hair. “How much do I look like I’ve just been fucked?” 

“Turn around.” Horatio scanned him with limited vision; he hadn’t put his glasses on yet. “Only mildly. Though I can’t see much.” 

“I mean, she saw me after Laertes and didn’t know anything so. It’s fine.” 

“Yeah.” 

Hamlet crossed the room to him, reaching out and smoothing Horatio’s hair, straightening his collar. His fingers brushed Horatio’s throat and for one second Horatio wanted to pull him in and kiss him senseless again, fall back onto the bed and rip off the clothes they’d just put back on. Hamlet’s eyes caught his- they were dark, pupils dilated. Did he want the same? 

“Your hair is all messed up,” Hamlet said. “Where are your glasses?” 

“On the table, I think.” 

Hamlet shuffled over and picked up Horatio’s glasses. He polished them on the side of his shirt and then returned to Horatio. “Hold still,” he said, and slid the glasses gently onto Horatio’s face. Hamlet’s hands stayed there on his cheeks, a thumb rubbing his jaw. 

“Horatio,” Hamlet said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You didn’t tell me you could grow facial hair.” 

“It didn’t seem important, my lord.” 

Something cousin to hurt flashed in Hamlet’s expression. “Why do you only say my name when we have sex?” 

But before Horatio had to construct a reply, there was a knock on Hamlet’s bedroom door. Hamlet sprung away from him as it opened and Gertrude appeared. “Hamlet, Ophelia’s here. Oh, hello, Horatio. How are you?” 

Horatio mustered up a smile. “I’m very well. Thank you, madam.” 

“Oh, please, just call me Gertrude. And Hamlet, tidy up a little before Ophelia comes up here. The poor girl doesn’t need to see your underwear,” she said, gesturing to a pile of clean laundry on the floor. 

Hamlet snorted. “Of course, mom.” He kissed her cheek. “C’mon, Horatio.” 

They went downstairs, Horatio trailing after Hamlet with a hollow feeling in his stomach.

“Ophelia!” Hamlet ran to her and hugged her tight, bending over so his chin could rest on her shoulder. It was a very long hug. “My pal! My gal! How’s life?” 

“Better now that you’re home,” Ophelia said, beaming up at him. Her eyes had taken on that shine they only got when Hamlet was around. 

She finally saw Horatio. “Horatio! I didn’t know you were here.” 

“We were just, uh. We-” Hamlet floundered. 

“We were studying,” Horatio said quickly. 

Hamlet gave one “HA!”, then shut his mouth, embarrassed. “Yeah. We were just studying. Horatio was just leaving, though.” 

“I was?” said Horatio. Hamlet took Ophelia’s hand. “I was.” 

“We should all hang out this weekend,” Hamlet said. 

“Yeah, that’ll be so fun! Oh my god, we should have, like, a slumber party, like the old days.” Ophelia bounced a bit. “You guys don’t even know, I’ve been so lonely. Senior year sucks. Like, Juliet and Miranda and Hermia all got boyfriends and I’m just alone.” 

“College is so much better,” Hamlet said, fucking  _ giggling.  _ “Right, Horatio?” 

“Yeah,” Horatio said. “It’s great. I have to go now.” 

And before either of them could bid him goodbye, Horatio was pushing out the door with blood pounding in his ears.

 

* * *

 

 

Horatio walked away wearing one sock and no dignity. He slammed the door getting into his car, and rested his head on the wheel for a long moment. Hamlet was his friend. Ophelia was his friend. His best friends. He loved both of them dearly. Yet the thought of them together, alone, of Ophelia giggling at something Hamlet said, of him smiling back at her, blushing at her, of him touching her hand, leaning forward, his eyes bright and lovely and fixed on her- 

It took everything in him not to punch the dashboard. 

His car smelled like Hamlet. Hamlet’s stupid shampoo and stupid perfume he called cologne but was definitely perfume. Usually it was nice but right now it made him angry, or maybe the angriness was just the strain of trying not to break down. Hamlet’s stuff was scattered everywhere in here too. His phone charger wrapped in black duct tape. His emergency eyeliner. A notebook for math class he’d left in here and never recovered. A sweatshirt he’d discarded when they had made out in the backseat late at night when Hamlet was trying to get away from his father, his mouth tasting of wine-cellar discoveries. Horatio had been so exhilarated and afraid that night as he attempted to remember that Hamlet was just lonely. 

In the driver’s mirror, Horatio caught a glimpse of himself. Red marks poked out from his collar, stupidly high. God. Horatio was trapped in a shrine to Hamlet, and it was called his fucking life. 

He drove home in silence, trying hard not to think about what could be happening in Hamlet’s bedroom. Trying not to think about Hamlet at all. Or Ophelia. Normally his Hamlet problems would be fine because he could just tell Ophelia and the two could talk about how much of an asshole he could be together. But now she was there, with him, doing something Horatio was attempting not to think of as betrayal, and Horatio was here, doing the metaphorical walk of shame up to his room as quietly as possible. Nobody heard him, or, if they did, they didn’t care enough to say hello. 

He took a shower and washed himself furiously, scrubbing his skin raw with an old washcloth. His bedtime routine was an eternity. When he finally fell into bed, every fiber in his being was aching, a painful knot tying in his chest. 

For a small moment, he allowed himself to indulge in self-pity. Horatio didn’t do self-pity, yet here he was, a sudden waterworks springing from his eyes. It wasn’t fair. He loved Hamlet. He did everything for Hamlet. He would die for Hamlet if he had to. Because he loved him. He loved him and he fucked him and it was only just now that he knew that those two things could not be friends. 

He drifted off to sleep still crying, clutching his pillow to his chest like it could fill the hole left by a straight-playing prince. When he awoke the next morning, he was still cold, still sad, and still very much alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> do you want a sequel where i resolve it or do we want horatio to be a sad boy
> 
>  
> 
> also psa i love gertrude


End file.
